


I Go To Sleep

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Coffee, Dare, Diary/Journal, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Morning Routines, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is going to be a catch for any Inception ficlets I fill on <a href="http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> Each chapters is a new ficlet. Tags and rating are for all chapters, but any necessary warnings will be posted on the individual chapter they belong to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 300 Pages, Arthur/Eames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames finds a notebook that contains a list of all the reasons why Arthur loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Gen  
>  I wrote this chapter [a long time ago](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/33220279552/300-pages-of-why-i-love-eames) and never posted.

Eames wasn’t snooping. He really wasn’t; It wasn’t even hidden. But that was so typically Arthur, he supposed, to hide something in plain sight. Only his clumsiness accounted for seeing the contents of the notebook in the first place. Well, not clumsiness really; he was not an oaf. But he was being careless when searching Arthur’s study for the Clark file that he just knew Arthur was hiding from him for not putting it away in the correct spot in the first place.

Eames pulled out a few random notebooks from the shelf to see if it had been slipped between them (a trick Arthur had used before) and accidentally dropped a few to the floor when lost his grip on their spines. He wouldn’t have even looked at them except for a line that was written in Arthur’s blocky architect’s handwriting caught his eye as he gathered them up. It was just a date and a location, but one that resonated with Eames, stirred up powerful memories of a bullet wound, too much adrenaline, and a first kiss.

Eames sat down in Arthur’s leather chair and set the notebook on the dark mahogany desk, flipping through a few pages of what would seem like an innocuous list of random items to any outsider, but was actually a list of every major event in his and Arthur’s relationship.

Each page was numbered, and Eames quickly flipped to the end, noting that there there were exactly three-hundred of them. Eames turned back to the front of the book and found that it started with a list anniversaries, gifts, and vacations. As the list went on, the references became more obscure.

There was an entry for the Amsterdam job that neither of them talk about now, because Arthur had actually managed to hold out over Eames in their idiotic duel of ingesting copious amounts of alcohol after smoking a rather large amount of pot. It was a terrible idea from the beginning, and at the end, Arthur had been left to soothingly pet down Eames’ spine as Eames kneeled—pasty white and naked—over the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach for over an hour. It had been embarrassing; Eames weighed at least two stone more than Arthur and practically grew up in a pub; there is no reason he shouldn’t have been able to out drink Arthur. It’s still a sore spot for Eames, and he felt like an absolute fool, but the entry only denoted a fondness for Eames’ “cute” whining and how he could somehow manage to still be beautiful when “puking his guts out.”

There were things Eames didn’t even remember, such as a reference to a dinner at a Parisian restaurant—an early job together in Geneva (too small for Arthur to have made an impression on Eames at the time), and an apparent conversation about luck and chance while they were both delayed in the Seattle Airport.

Near the end of the book, the list picked up substance again, noting more recent occurrences: the Fisher job, their three day stay in Thailand last year, the lovely dinner with Arthur’s mother only a few months ago. Eames was somewhat disappointed that there was nothing about their sex life so far, until he got near the very end where there were fifty pages dedicated to it. In detail. Eames laughed at a few: how Arthur appreciated their attempts at role playing, and loved that Eames was willing to wear just about any ridiculous thing Arthur asked of him, including the frilly thongs. (He mentally noted a few things Arthur enjoyed more than he had realized, and that he apparently needed to try again.)

The very end of the book contained more simple observations, like how Arthur liked Eames’ smile, Eames voice, how Eames diligently kept the coffee stocked in the apartment. Arthur liked that Eames was the one who dealt with the nosey, elderly neighbors so that Arthur didn’t get stuck in a never-ending conversation because he didn’t know how to disengage them politely.

The very last item in the book made Eames’ lips turn up in an amused smile. “The way he only calls me darling when he’s frustrated with me.”

“I see that you are going through my things again,” Arthur said from the doorway. It didn’t startle Eames, he’d heard Arthur come in the front door, and he refused to be embarrassed about getting caught reading what Arthur had apparently spent a great deal of time writing and didn’t bother actually hiding.

“Your memory is uncanny, Arthur,” he said as he looked at Arthur leaning against the door jam. How did you even remember enough to fill a notebook this large?”

“I had motivation.”

Eames’ eyebrows quirk up questioningly. Arthur grinned, his posture relaxing as he set his bag on the floor. He looked extremely pleased with himself when he said, “Cobb and I had an argument when I asked you to move in with me. He’s never understood our relationship, but he’d also always been a bit wrapped up in himself to even try. He said that he would bet that I couldn’t come up with fifty reasons why I should want you to move in. I told him I could come up with three-hundred pages.”

“And lord knows you are a competitive one,” Eames said as he leaned back in the chair. Arthur walked around the desk and lowered himself onto Eames’ lap.

“I am,” Arthur said and then he leaned in for a kiss. Eames tilted his head up, letting Arthur capture his lips, work his tongue into Eames’ mouth slowly as the breathed together.

When they broke, Eames asked, “Please tell me you never actually gave Cobb this? There is far too much detail of our sex life in it.”

“Oh, I think that’s the best part,” Arthur said with a soft laugh. “If he’s going to challenge me, he’s going to damn well be punished for it when he loses.”

Eames gave a little snort at that. “Oh, well when you put it that way. It does sound wickedly entertaining. I think you should give it to him when we go down to visit next month.”

“I plan on it,” Arthur said as he reclaimed Eames’ lips in another deep kiss.


	2. Home is in the Routine, Arthur/Eames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames' morning ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated:** Gen  
>  Originally posted [here.](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/80858580461/arthur-and-eames-in-the-desert-sure)

Eames gazes out the sliding glass doors, taking in the crisp blue line of the horizon past the yard of cacti and brush weed. He has a cup of Barry’s, a package of shortbread biscuits, and is waiting for Arthur to wake before he heads to the pool for his morning swim. It’s already well over twenty-five degrees out and it’s only half past nine in the morning. They’ve been here for two weeks and his tan has started to settle in again after a long winter job in Oslo. Arthur only burns and tends to watch from the shade of canopied patio as Eames swims his laps.

The air here is dry. It’s definitely not Eames’ favorite state, but Arthur has a lovely home in a quiet cul-de-sac of a small town with a Spanish name. He hears the faucet of the master bath running and goes to boil a fresh pot of water for Arthur’s coffee, pulling down the odd glass bobble and cone filter that Arthur likes, scooping out some beans to grind. In three minutes, Arthur emerges from the room with wet hair, a fresh face, and dressed in nothing but a deep, blue bath robe.

Slipping him by, Arthur gives Eames a quick kiss to his shoulder as he dumps the grounds into the filter, takes the pot off of it’s base and sets his bobble and filter on the gram scale. Eames snags the digital timer from the catch-all drawer and hands it over, leaning in to hook his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. He watches as Arthur pours a perfect three minute cup of coffee—perfectly weighted.

This routine makes any place feel like home, and he had missed it—always does after months apart. Arthur takes a sip and Eames can feel the way his body sighs with contentment, pressed up against Arthur’s back.

Later, Arthur will make absolutely atrocious huevos rancheros, and Eames will laugh asking when they’ll leave this awful place, where there’s no good food and he has to have his tea imported. Arthur will smirk, and tell Eames to pick the next place, and Eames will pour himself another cup of tea. He won’t look for another job until there’s only a week’s worth of tea left in the cupboard.


End file.
